Kaleidoscope

by Tracy Campbell

  “Okay?”

  “Dissociation is one of the most direct defenses that the psyche has against a traumatic experience that's just, frankly, too overwhelming. When things are tough and there really is no escape from the internal distress that one is feeling, he or she will detach themselves from their external environment, making them feel like they aren't a part of what's going on around them. Usually this means a person will have a tough time associating any feelings with an event. And of course, memories with associated feelings tend to be remembered more clearly and more easily.

  I don't want to get too scientific on you, dear, as that isn't the point of this discussion, but I want to explain to you why emotions are so important to remembering things. There are three parts of the brain that are very important and relevant here. One is the amygdala, which helps the brain process emotions, and also plays a key role in what you probably know as the 'fight or flight' response. Next is the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for a slew of things, including concentrating and decision-making, and it also houses our 'working memories'. That's the part you probably know as the short-term memory.

  Finally we have the hippocampus, which basically combines all of the perceptive information you've taken in throughout the day and the emotional information of an event, supplied by the amygdala, and decides if it should be committed to long-term memory based on how...intense, I suppose, the information is. It's like a computer saving a file to a hard drive. So you see, when there's a lot of emotional information lacking, from dissociating yourself from the world around you, your brain is less likely to hold on to that information because it doesn't fire up quite as much of a neurological storm. It doesn't seem as important, so that information doesn't make it to the long-term memory. This is likely a reason why you continue to have problems remembering more recent things.”

  I raised my eyebrows. This was a lot of what I'm sure was really useful information, but it was so hard to concentrate. It was a difficult task in general, but when Ms. Orowitz went on one of her psychological rambles, it was almost impossible to not slip into one of my daydreams. Nonetheless, I forced myself to listen as she continued.

  “And did you know,” she went on, flipping to a different page in her folder and raising her hand matter-of-factly, “that the hippocampus actually shrinks during traumatic events? This part isn't just for storing memory, it's for recalling them too. And just as I said before, as far as the brain being like a computer, if your hippocampus is shrunk due to trauma, it will act like a shorted hard-drive...it still works, just not as well. When it recalls memories, the links are broken. Sometimes flashbacks occur when a person sees something that is relevant to their broken memory...” she finally paused to take a breath, looking intently at me as she did so. “Which is how you've been tracking down your lost memories. And one more thing...remember how I'd talked about the prefrontal cortex?”

  “Yep, you just said it about two minutes ago.”

  “Oh...yes, well, just making sure you're paying attention! No pun intended...sorry about that.” Ms. Orowitz winked at me, and I rolled my eyes. “Post-traumatic stress disorder research has shown that the prefrontal cortex can also become damaged, leading to memory and concentration problems that make it even harder to recall memories and to make new ones.”

  Ms. Orowitz pulled her thin, ruby-colored lips into a line that made them almost nonexistent, signaling the end of my psychology lesson for the day. I leaned forward on the couch again, having reclined while my therapist jumbled along about my brain and how damaged it was. Shrinking, damaged, shorted out...great.

  “So, basically you're telling me that I have several important parts of my brain that are shrinking and shorting out and making my life a living hell because I can't cope with stress?”

  “Oh no dear, trauma is much more than stress. It's severe mental stress that--”

  “Yeah, whatever. Stress,” I interrupted. “So...how do we fix it then? I mean, is there some kind of pill you're going to ask me to take, or some kind of...brain exercise I can do?” I was well aware I was grasping for straws here, but in my defense, this wasn't my area of expertise. If it were, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

  “Well, sometimes depression medication can help with the heightened effects of stress on the body,” Ms. Orowitz mused. “But I've never been big on medication, myself. I like to use those as a last resort, after every other route has been tried. Medication will help mask the problems you face due to your issue, but we're after a solution. However, there certainly are a few things we can try, such as stress management techniques and cognitive behavioral therapy, which will be a little bit more...involved I suppose, than our previous sessions.”

  She sighed. “If only we knew a little bit more behind your story, I could be more specific, and maybe even enlist in the help of a specialist. Perhaps as you continue your journey, it will become clearer.”

  “So...I just keep doing therapy. Only now instead of dealing with my memory issues, we're just going to try some new crap.”

  Ms. Orowitz frowned. “Well...it's a bit more positive of a change I think, but yes, essentially that's how we can begin to approach your post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  I groaned. This was more of the same, and nothing else. She certainly had a way of making all of this “progress” feel completely insignificant. Static threatened to overtake my attention as I gazed again out the small open part of the window.

  “However,” Ms. Orowitz added, “Things like your painting classes and continuing to make new friends will be helpful in your therapy as well.” She paused, ruffling her folder of papers into a disorganized pile and placing them on her desk. “How have your friendships been lately, if you don't mind my asking? Are you still going to those painting classes?”

  She sounded almost too eager, and it almost felt nice to thwart her with my response just so she might be wrong for once. “No, I actually haven't gone since we finished the painting project.”

  “Oh? Is there any particular reason why not?”

  I shuffled into a different position in an attempt to be comfortable in this office—though after months of trying, I knew it was a futile effort. Still, it made me feel better to keep moving. I'm sure it made me look like I had some sort of nervous tick, but that would be the least of my problems.

  The sound of disappointment in Ms. Orowitz's voice somehow made me bolder. “Well...I've been hanging out more with Austin, actually.” Her face brightened as I continued. “Last Wednesday, he took me out for dinner, and I felt like a normal teenager for once. He borrowed his mom's car, and took me to this great restaurant downtown...and then when he dropped me off...”

  I hesitated. Was today really an appropriate time to discuss this? Oh, why the hell not?

  “He uh...he kissed me.”

  Ms. Orowitz sat back in her chair, thinly veiling her surprise with a mask of neutrality. “Wow...a kiss? How long have you and Austin known each other now?”

  I knew why she was asking. “Long enough,” I replied defensively. “Over a month. It's not like we're dating or anything, but it was my first kiss.” I felt my eyes losing focus as I withdrew into my head to pull forward one of the best memories I'd cultivated in a long time. “I...I've felt differently about him ever since he came over on Halloween, but I didn't know in what way was because I'd never felt it before. But...” I trailed off, as my pseudo-self returned to kick me in the gut and keep me from saying more.

  “Do you love him?” Ms. Orowitz inquired politely.

  I couldn't bring myself to answer her, which was answer enough. Her smile deepened, and I turned away so she wouldn't see my own smile. Love. When someone said it out loud, it made it seem like such a concrete thing...love.

  “And do you think that he feels the same way?”

  I brought myself back into the room, shooing away my ever-watchful persona, who watched the world from her own distant universe. I needed to be in this one right now.

  I ponder
ed her question, with some despair. “Well, I...I don't know.”

  “Surely he must feel something for you, if he kissed you! Have you talked to him about it?”

  “Well...no, not exactly,” I replied. “I kind of haven't seen him since. The days following were a little, um...action-packed. So I've been putting him off until I know how to deal with it.” I hung my head low. Without the inhibition of my distrustful shadow lurking, and being faced head-on with the growing pit of fear in my stomach, I found myself mumbling along. “I'm afraid of what he might think.”

  “Afraid of what he might think?”

  I swore I could feel silence swallowing the entire room; even the incessant clock seemed to stop ticking. My thoughts swirled violently in my head like a tornado as I contemplated the safety of my revelation. I knew I'd talked with Ms. Orowitz for so long that I should trust her by now, but...it's not as much that I distrust her, as I fear her authority over my thoughts.

  “I...” I was losing my nonchalant demeanor. “I've only told him a little bit about my situation,” I blurted. I couldn't stop the words from coming out. “And...I mean, come on, who wants to hear that someone they care about tried to off themselves once, and doesn't even remember why? I know that would scare me off, because what if they just decided that they might try to do that again?”

  Ms. Orowitz's face turned grave. “Are you feeling like you might be having suicidal urges?”

  “No,” I protested, flailing my hands in the air in frustration. “That's not the point. What if Austin thinks I might? Or what if it's just too much drama for him, and he doesn't like me anymore? I mean, I'm trying so hard to trust him, and--”

  “Hold on, let's slow down for a second,” the therapist said in a soothing tone, leaning forward so her untamed mane of auburn curls dribbled over the front of her shoulders. I frowned in silence, trying to settle my panic as I did so.

  “Neither of us can possibly know what Austin might think about this situation,” she said, her voice level and calm. “But I do know two things. I know that if you're avoiding him out of this fear, it's more likely to push him away than anything you might say. I also know that honesty is almost always the best policy. Put yourself in his shoes—he must be quite worried about you, knowing that something is amiss but being pushed away because of it, rather than being trusted as a friend. Do you agree?”

  “Yeah, but--”

  “And if he is indeed a true friend, Jade, he'll understand.” She smiled. “If not, well then it's best to find out sooner rather than later. Either way, you mustn't let your fear of yourself drive away others.”

  “Fear of myself? I'm not afraid of myself...I know I make an ass of myself, and that I'm awkward and weird and antisocial and distrusting...but I'm not afraid of any of that,” I said vehemently. “I'm afraid of...of other people not being okay with me being that way. Of Austin not being okay with it.

  I mean...” I sure said that a lot, didn't I? But what did I mean? I sighed. “I haven't been this close to anyone other than my mom since I was a kid. It's new to me. Mom has never had anyone stick around for her, and he has more than enough reasons to not want to stick around with me, if he really knew.”

  “Are you afraid he might leave you like many of the men in your mother's life have if he knew the truth about you?”

  I remained silent.

  “Oh Jade,” Ms. Orowitz sighed. “It's not in my profession to give you a pep talk and talk to you about all of the wonderful things there are about you...but I do want you to know that I really do think you are a fantastic girl, and I want nothing more than to help you see yourself the way that I, and your mother, and many others throughout your life, see you. It might even be the way that Austin sees you. But that aside,” she cleared her throat. “Are you wanting to pursue something with this young man?”

  My heartbeat quickened, and I narrowed my eyes. “What...what do you mean, pursue something?”

  Ms. Orowitz seemed to hesitate, if only for a moment. “Well...it seems you have a very deep connection to Austin. Post-traumatic stress disorder and your resulting dissociation can make it really difficult to deal with the slew of emotions that comes with loving someone. And with your low self-image, it can become very easy to use the positive emotions that go with love to fill the parts of yourself that you're working on with me...I guess what I'm saying to you, dear, is that I want to make sure, as your therapist, that an emotional investment of this caliber isn't going to make you dependent on another person to fill your voids. I don't want a romantic relationship to be overly important to you in your fragile mental state, and I especially don't want it to interfere with your progress. You've come so, so far. Do you think this is something you're ready for?”

  Her words had stunned me for a moment, and the emotional void she'd been spewing about whirled into a hurricane inside of me, turning into a venom that swirled around into a defensive poison. Mind poison, I called it—it was the irrational anger or worry I felt from time to time, boiling in the fires of my flawed coping skills and turning into something that overtook my mind. They were self-destructive thoughts, sometimes leading to actions, that I was powerless to stop.

  After stewing in my anger just long enough for it to boil over, I regained use of my tongue, spitting the venom out with them. “Overly important?” I asked incredulously. “You're the one who said I needed to socialize and make new friends. You even just now said it would help. Well, this is the only friend I have, the only one I've made since I moved, and you're telling me he might now be overly important to me?”

  “No no, dear. Making friends is absolutely important!” Ms. Orowitz implored. “This is more than a friendship now, and I can see it. I may not look it, but I do remember what it's like to be young and in love. Jade, with everything you're facing, a friend is wonderful, but falling in love with someone when your self-loathing is so great and when your inner turmoil is so high can be very dangerous. I'm simply asking you if you think you're ready for it.”

  I could tell that my fire had put her on edge—she was cautious and deliberate with her speech, as I normally would be with her. But today, in this moment, I was uncensored. All of the months of rage, at her for being so damn right all the time and so smug about it, at myself for being so broken, and at the world for not being able to tell me why it couldn't fix it for me, had finally reached out like a volcano in my soul.

  Ms. Orowitz continued to be cautious, talking slowly in the absence of my answer to her question. “I think...I think it's wonderful that you've finally been able to be so close to someone, and I do recommend telling this young man the truth about what we've been talking about...about what's been going on with you. Especially if you have feelings for him.”

  She paused. It was a long pause that made me believe she might be finished speaking, until she finally squeaked out what she was trying to say. “That being said, I do also agree that you might be feeling the need to distance yourself from him for a reason. You're very right that you're dealing with a lot of things right now, given your new recollection of a very significant past event. I think...that perhaps you should consider putting the idea of a relationship on hold, and council Austin as your friend—as only a friend—during this trying time. I really think you need to continue focusing on yourself and your efforts to get better, and I know that if this gentleman cares about you, he'll understand. Perhaps a little bit of temporary distance will be helpful, both for you and your budding relationship with him, and in the mean time, we can work on some coping strategies for your stress--”

  It was then that the volcano fully erupted. I could feel the lava in my eyes, in my veins, and most importantly, in my mouth. I stood up, fearing that if I continued to sit down, the heat in my veins would have nowhere to go and I might actually explode.

  “What sort of therapist recommends socializing and making friends, encourages it, then suddenly changes their mind when it seems like I might actually have a shot at being happy with it?” The words came
hot and fast. “Didn't you hear what I said, that I'd actually felt like a normal teenager when I was with Austin? Do you know how long it's been since I felt that way? Do you know how long it's been since I looked at my mother, and she looked like a doting parent and not like a shaky wreck that was constantly wondering where she'd gone wrong, and if her daughter would ever actually be a normal teenager? It's been a long, long time.”

  Ms. Orowitz was silent and stoic as I continued, her hands folded sternly in her lap. This only infuriated me more, and I heard my voice rising, both in volume and pitch. “Are you afraid this might put a dent in your master plan to fix me, like some scientist who finally made a success out of her little lab experiment? Are you excited that you're so close to making a breakthrough with me, and that if I make my own decision I might take away your Nobel prize? Well how about this...if you want to be a scientist, why don't you invent a more effective cure for my ailment”--I put an unnecessary emphasis on the word--“than these bullshit conversations that you call therapy? Then we can both win. I wouldn't have to keep coming here, wondering if I'm making satisfactory progress and wondering how many more sessions I have to have before my 'illness' magically gets better.”

  “Jade, please have a seat and try to calm down--”

  “No, I'm tired of being calm!” I was almost screaming—it didn't even sound like my own voice. I'd never heard it before in my life. Again it was like I was watching this jet-fueled, somewhat embarrassing scene from afar while my shadow cowered in my rage.

  “I'm tired of being treated like some invalid who can't make decisions for themselves without ending up trying to throw myself over a bridge or into a bus. I'm tired of being constantly reminded, every week, of how messed up I really am by coming here. And now, I'm being told that the one person who doesn't make me feel like a nutcase is someone who might be 'dangerous' to me, who I should just throw my problems at and then dump into a hole for later until you tell me that it's okay to drag him out.